


Bedside Manner

by eloquated



Series: Unexpectedly Wonderful [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Parentlock, Sherlock being a good dad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-11-29 14:01:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18224105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eloquated/pseuds/eloquated
Summary: Nobody ever said parenthood was easy.But Sherlock's son needs him, so he's going to learn.(aka, When your four-year-old wakes you up in the middle of the night)





	Bedside Manner

**Author's Note:**

> Hi lovelies, and welcome to another installment of "Sherlock Holmes is actually a damn good dad"! 
> 
> Just a bit of domestic-y fluff to brighten up your day!

“Daddy?”

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut for an extra moment, willing away the small, unhappy voice at the side of the bed.  The night before had been dominated by a particularly intriguing case (well, it had only been a four, technically, but the sheer strangeness of it had appealed his sense of whimsy!), but he’d only crawled into bed an hour before.

Yawning expansively, Sherlock forced himself up onto his elbow, and looked down at the small, upturned face of his son.  “Tristan, it’s.. 4:30 in the morning.” He began to admonish exhaustedly, even as he attempted to scrub the gritty bits of sleep from his eyes with the end of his thumb.

Wait.

Tristan?

If it had been Ariade, he would have carted her right back to bed (well, more likely he would have just tucked her in between him and Molly, and hoped she didn’t wake her mother) but Tristan?  No, Ariadne was constantly on the move, bouncing around the house and making as much noise as a two-year-old possibly could.

But Tristan, who was their quiet, soft spoken little boy, and who had never been the type to sneak out of bed?  

Blinking hard, Sherlock sat up a little straighter and took in the miserable look on his son’s face.  “What is it, Tris?” He asked instead, and swung his feet over the side of the bed. 

Tristan hugged his arms around his middle, and even in the dark, Sherlock could see that he looked a little green around the gills.   _ Damn _ .

“Sherlock…?”  Molly yawned from her side of the bed, only to be waved off.  Years ago, Sherlock would have been only too happy to pass off a midnight visitor to his partner; but that had been four kids, and another on the way, ago.

Besides, he told himself, he could handle one sick toddler!  (No matter what John Watson had said about his lack of bedside manner.  Just because  _ John _ didn’t get coddled, didn’t mean Sherlock was incapable of it!)

“Go back to sleep.  I’ve got him.”

Not wanting to jostle Tristan too much, Sherlock scooped his four-year-old into his arms and straightened his back, popping slightly as he stretched.  His son was warm against his chest, all soft angles, and fuzzy pajamas printed with sheep that had once belonged to his older brother, Ulysses.

Carrying a sick toddler to the bathroom without bumping him was much easier said than done.  Sherlock hissed under his breath as he darted across the hallway, one bare foot coming down on a stray bit of Lego shrapnel.  

“Daddy?  Are you ok?”  Tristan asked against his chest, distracted from his unhappy stomach by the aborted, half bitten-off curse.

“Fine.  Fine.” Sherlock promised, though he kicked the Lego into the corner a little more forcefully than strictly necessary!  No more blocks outside the living room. 

In fact, no more blocks ever.  

From now on, only soft toys!  The ones that wouldn’t get underfoot!

Grumbling inwardly and yawning again, Sherlock propped his son on the edge of the bathroom basin and rummaged through the cupboard for the thermometer.  Logically he was sure he was running warm, he’d felt the clammy heat of his forehead against his neck, but it never hurt to be cautious. “Open your mouth, put it under your tongue, and hold still.”

Obediently, Tristan took it, and rested his head on his father’s stomach while he waited for it to beep.  

Slowly, Sherlock smoothed a hand over Tristan’s ginger curls, letting the soft whorls slide through his fingers.  With the light on, he could see the flushed cheeks, and the way his little feet dangled listlessly in midair, instead of swinging impatiently like they aught to.  

Temperature taken (and mercifully not high enough to worry)  Sherlock found himself a little at odd ends. What did he do now?

_ What would Molly do?   _ Of course, she had a medical degree, and it had always been a very good excuse to outsource all sick children to her care!  Sherlock was much better at amusing the healthy ones, and keeping them from getting underfoot.

_ What had Mycroft done when he was sick?   _ He’d changed the cold flannel on his forehead and read him stories until he fell asleep.  He’d distracted him, and stroked his hair; and never abandoned him to sickness and boredom alone.

Not that he could ask either of them!  Molly needed her sleep; and it was a matter of pride that he wouldn’t call Mycroft in the middle of the night unless it was a dire emergency indeed.  Which meant he was going to have to figure it out himself.

So, what could he do, that wouldn’t run the risk of waking Molly, or the other kids?

Taking him back to his room wasn’t an option-- Tristan shared with his brother and sister, and it was a miracle they were sleep asleep!  

The living room?

“Alright, Tris.  The couch.” He decided aloud, and scooped Tristan carefully back into his arms.  

He could walk perfectly fine, but…

Well, Sherlock admitted (in the privacy of his own mind, and absolutely nowhere else!) there was something about his little boy looking so miserable that made him want to hold him.  

That made him want to cradle him that little bit closer, even though he logically knew it would put him at risk of the germs.  Because he son was sick and unhappy, and Sherlock couldn’t actually make that all go away.

But he wanted to.

This time, padding out to the living room, Sherlock kept a much closer eye out for stray blocks, just in case!  

A bucket was tucked at the end of the couch (because that was one thing Sherlock did remember!) and a glass of water set on the coffee table, just in case, before the two of them curled up on the couch.  

Tristan snuggled in close, his hot little face pressed against his father’s chest with a long suffering sound, something halfway between a whimper and a sigh.  And it was the easiest thing in the world to grab the blanket from the back of the couch, draping it over them both to keep off the early morning chill.

Just as Sherlock was wondering if he needed to find the little bottle of children’s medicine Molly kept in the cabinet, he realized that Tristan was asleep.  His breathing slow and shallow as he draped against his father, a warm weight against Sherlock’s chest.

_ Well _ , he thought as he stifled a yawn of his own,  _ it had been a very late night _ .

And it wasn’t as though he could jostle Tristan, he needed the sleep.  

His arms securely cradling his son, Sherlock closed his eyes, and was asleep before the end of the thought.

The rest of the week was a blur of juice and blankets as the flu laid seige to the family.

It was, Sherlock texted John several days later, a bedside manner trial-by-fire.

**Author's Note:**

> Come swing into the comments and chat domestic-Sherlolly things with me!


End file.
